


Things We Can’t Leave Behind

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Holmes Family, M/M, Mildy dubious consent (but not in the way you think), Seduction, Sherlock is 15 Mycroft is 22, Sibling Love, Sibling Rivalry, Teasing, Teenlock, Underage Sex, holmescest, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:43:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft looks down at the pale figure waiting for him and knows this will ruin them both, but him most of all.</p><p>Or in which Sherlock picks a new, scandalous way to irritate his brother and Mycroft gives up any chance of being the man he'd hoped, or being happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things We Can’t Leave Behind

**Author's Note:**

> This is SOOOOOOOO not my usual thing, but in the last few days I've read some really good Mycroft/Sherlock and it just sort of happened.

Sherlock likes to drop a hint down and then, just to see if Mycroft remembers, just to make him squirm. Certain remarks in front of John that the doctor doesn’t even register but make Mycroft give him a good scowl, and then Sherlock chuckles like the imp he is.

Sometimes (always when they’re alone) it’s less subtle. His brother always knows when it’s coming – the particular smirk as Sherlock’s eyes flick over him head to toe. That smirk takes him back fifteen years and brings the same unthinkable confusion of emotions every time.

“Don’t.” He says tersely today. He’s got too much on his plate to deal with this as well.

Of course the warning only makes Sherlock grin harder. He pushes out of his armchair, trailing seemingly without purpose across the living room.

“But Mikey, I’m not doing anything.”

“You are and we both know it. I haven’t the patience to pretend to be uncomfortable for you right now.”

Sherlock sits right in his brother’s lap, hand resting so gently on his lapel it’s a true testament to exactly how wary Mycroft is that he can feel it at all. There’s no real danger, not anymore. There’s too much contempt between them, too much...growing up that can’t be undone. They didn’t turn into the people they thought they should be.

He still gets a rush of alarm though at the hooded look Sherlock gives him, lips pouting and full.

“Oh, I don’t think you ever _pretend_ to be uncomfortable. I think I know you better than most, dear brother, and I know precisely how...I...make...you...feel.” his words come out lazily as his hand presses down towards Mycroft’s crotch.

He dumps Sherlock off his lap before the younger man can notice the unfortunate bulge growing in his trousers and stands.

“If you’re just going to waste my time with this coquettish nonsense again-”

His sentence falls apart as Sherlock leers up at him from the floor, leaning back on his hands. The way his jacket hangs open exposing the long svelte lines of his frame gives Mycroft a violent urge to run.

“You’re always so easy, Mikey. Do all attractive people have such sway over you or is it just me?”

He tilts his head, the smile dropping away into curiosity, as though he’s actually interested in the data. Probably to use against Mycroft at some later date.

The elder Holmes presses his lips together in his trademark tight, unpleasant smile. “You’re the clever one. Decide for yourself.”

He buttons his jacket and heads for the stairs, umbrella in hand, trying to move with some composure instead of exposing how much he wants to lock himself in his room and never show his face again.

Sherlock’s voice follows him, unable to resist a last jab.

“Stop by again some night, Mikey. We’ll have a proper reminisce.”

*****

When Mycroft is twenty two, he makes a mistake. He hands Sherlock ammunition he can use for the rest of their lives.

It is not the first or last mistake Mycroft makes in regards to his brother, but it might be among the worst.

*****

Mycroft comes home for summer before his final year. He’s quietly excited about it, ready to burst into the political spectrum with his plans already laid out and his threads gathering. Mummy smiles warmly as he sets his bag inside the front door, more warmly than usual as she hugs him.

“Mycroft – goodness, are you still growing?”

“No Mummy,” he pulls back, “You’re just shrinking.”

She laughs. “Probably. With all the stress-”

“Stress?” his brows perk up.

She presses her lips together and attempts to brush it away with her hand. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You’re barely through the door.”

“You must be open with me, Mummy. I’m here to help. Is it money?”

“Oh no, there’s plenty of that.”

“Sherlock then.”

She avoids his gaze and Mycroft bites back a sigh. “Tell me, please.”

“I don’t know what to do with him. His grades are terrible, but he’s been devouring the entire contents of your father’s library, tearing out pages, writing in the margins. He’s destroyed several pieces of the best china for some sort of velocity experiment and he brings home the most awful things, bugs and moss and fungus and leaves them all over his room.”

Mycroft’s willing to bet that’s not all his brother’s bringing home. He’ll check the usual hiding spots and confiscate his cigarettes again, as well as anything else that happens to be there.

“He’s bored, Mummy.”

“Well how am I to keep him entertained? The only thing I ever suggest that he agrees with is his violin lessons, and they can’t go on all day.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

Her face immediately softens with relief. “Thank you, darling. What would we do without you?”

Mycroft smiles and heads upstairs, walking slowly down the long hall with his hands in his pockets. Talking to his little brother requires no small amount of delicacy. He stops outside the boy’s door and opens it without knocking, knowing Sherlock will only tell him to piss off.

The teenager’s hanging over the end of his bed, hair brushing the floor as his toes tap against the covers. He’s smoking and Mycroft wonders how Mummy hasn’t noticed the smell yet – though the overwhelming wet mould scent of Sherlock’s finds does cancel it out somewhat. His eyes flick angrily at the open door and then he smiles, rolling onto his stomach.

“Myyyycroft! Thought you’d have better things to do than laze about here in the sunshine.”

“I am paying you and Mummy a visit while I can. After this year I’ll be in London most of the time.”

Sherlock curls his lip and Mycroft snatches the cigarette away, walking to the window to stub it out on the brick before tucking it in his own pocket. Sherlock just continues to smile.

“Mummy says you’re in some trouble at school.”

“Boring.” Sherlock flops over the bed again.

“Maybe so Sherlock, but it is necessary.”

“Necessary,” he chuckles darkly, “That’s your favourite word, isn’t it Mikey? Perhaps we should change the family motto.”

“You’re upsetting her.”

“Everything upsets her.” Sherlock says, but it’s quiet and a bit more solemn.

 

Mycroft starts rummaging through Sherlock’s preferred hiding spots. His brother doesn’t stop him. Maybe he thinks he’s found better ones this time, maybe he just doesn’t care. He can always get more cigarettes when Mycroft’s gone. The young man surfaces with three half-empty packs, a switchblade, a preserved rabbit head that he hopes wasn’t Sherlock’s handiwork and a small bag of white pills. He holds them up accusingly.

“Dextroamphetamines? I hardly think you need them.”

“On the contrary – aren’t you always saying I’m too easily bored?” Sherlock lolls back, moving up the mattress to rest against his pillows.

Mycroft sweeps an eye over the disarray. The floor is littered with papers, books, clothes and rubbish. Clearly his brother has once again convinced the cleaning staff to stay out, probably with some horrid and smelly threat. The windowsills hold trays and dishes of various experiments, growing in a multi-coloured bloom thanks to the sunlight. He looks at Sherlock. There’s a small cut on his neck from a fight last week, but his knuckles appear unblemished. So yet another bully had a swing at Sherlock for unleashing his mouth and been _handled_ in return. His hair is unruly, as if he can’t just be bothered with it (which is most likely true) and he’s wearing tight jeans and an open button-down that shows his newly broad shoulders and trim torso. In short he looks scrawny for fifteen, but about twice as unkempt as Mycroft can stand too.

“You are utterly ridiculous sometimes, Sherly. How can you possibly be so bored that you torment the household and destroy anything you can get your hands on?”

His brother’s eyes flash. “Forgive me if being marooned out here in the open country isn’t as thrilling as university, _Mycroft_.”

“You need to learn to entertain yourself.” Mycroft could see what would happen if he didn’t: he’d either go completely mad, drive everyone else insane or find coarser and coarser ways to keep busy.

“Why? I’d be very entertained if I wasn’t stuck out here. Why should I embrace my imprisonment – so I can turn into you?”

Mycroft’s temper gets the best of him. As always when faced with his brother’s needling, he starts to frown, fists clenched behind his back.

“There are certain expectations, Sherly – both within the family and within society. I will not allow you to waste your intellect or pervert it. I will not allow you to cause Mummy more grief.”

Sherlock leaps off the bed suddenly, standing so close he has to tilt his head back to look at Mycroft. They’re almost the same height now but Sherlock still looks delicate beside him.

“How are you going to stop me, Mikey? Chain me to a desk until I’ve filled my head with useless crap?”

Mycroft smiles and it knocks some of Sherlock’s ire away, making him pause.

“I think I can find a few ways. Perhaps some tutors, riding lessons, trips to see Aunt Flora-”

“You’re going to schedule my summer,” he says almost disbelievingly and points to the window, “Mycroft, it’s the only time I can gather certain specimens!”

“Clearly you need the structure, Sherlock. And looking at this place I doubt you need more specimens.”

 

Sherlock’s face is consumed by rage and frustration and unmistakable boredom for a moment. It’s almost frightening, his sharp features coiled into a scowl that threatens to burns a hole in Mycroft’s jacket. Then it’s gone, replaced by a single twitch of the brow. Suddenly Sherlock’s smiling, but if anything it makes Mycroft more afraid. He takes an unconscious step back.

“Maybe you’re right, Mikey. You should keep me stimulated.”

He doesn’t reply, eyes narrowing. This does not bode well. Sure enough, Sherlock sticks his bottom lip out and wraps an arm around his brother’s neck, almost hanging flush against him as he looks up through his lashes.

“I can think of several ways.”

Mycroft’s brain desperately rejects the implications for as long as it can: the five seconds it takes for Sherlock to brush his lips against Mycroft’s neck.

He immediately pushes the youth away, openly gaping. In normal circumstances showing such surprise would be an unthinkable weakness, but Mycroft can’t help himself.

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

“Finding ways to stay busy, Mikey.” Sherlock takes a step closer again and he throws his hand up between them to keep the teenager at bay.

“That is a very poor joke, Sherlock.”

“Who’s joking? You’re an Oxford man now. I bet you’ve shagged dozens of girls with nice families and middling intelligence. Boys too, probably. Why not devote your time to someone interesting?”

“I am not having this conversation, Sherlock.”

He shrugs, smirking. “Fine. We won’t talk then.”

“No!” Mycroft takes a step towards the door, “I won’t listen to this, this _rubbish_ from you.”

He opens the door, half afraid Sherlock will try to stop him but he doesn’t. He runs his hands down his own torso instead, resting them against his waistband.

“Not today maybe, but we’ll see. Thank you for the project, big brother.”

Mycroft slams the door behind him.

*****

Mummy waits until the servants have left the room to turn to Mycroft with a proud smile.

“I’m so glad your little talk with Sherly went well. It’s good for him to have something to do.”

Yes, continuously stalk his brother, Mycroft thinks. His gaze flicks unwillingly to where Sherlock sits opposite, quirking a brow at him with the most sinisterly innocent smile he’s ever seen. His brother plays with his fork, pushing the food around without looking at it. His eyes are fixed on Mycroft, as they have been for the past month.

“He is young,” Mycroft says pointedly, “He just needs a push in the right direction.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch and Mycroft feels slightly ill.

“Well I’ve always preferred when you two get along, you know that.” Mummy takes another elegant bite.

“Don’t worry, Mummy,” Sherlock grins, “I’m sure Mikey and I will be better than friends by the end of summer.”

Mycroft shoots a look at him and puts his napkin on the table, standing.

“If you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock hurriedly makes to stand but Mycroft rests a hand on his mother’s shoulder.

“Sherly, stay and keep Mummy company.”

“Oh that would be wonderful, dear.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenches but he sits, glaring at his brother. Mycroft heads for his room, confident he’ll be able to lock himself in and avoid any more unwelcome overtures tonight.

Ever since the first night Sherlock has been following him obsessively, adopting every tactic he can to get Mycroft alone and pliant; he was the perfect tease, full of pouty looks and sly grins. He made suggestive comments and gestures, his eyes raked Mycroft in a way that made him shudder, he walked around the upper floor naked and no matter what the elder Holmes said he persisted.

He could have told Mummy but she wouldn’t have been able to stop it and it would only confuse her. It confused Mycroft in part, to be honest. He understood Sherlock was trying to get under his skin and he’d picked a taboo way to do it, knowing how stiff and proper his brother was. Normally he would ignore Sherlock at every turn until he got annoyed, bored and gave up. But some tiny, horrified part of Mycroft couldn’t ignore this. It was just so...well, wrong. It made his spine crawl to see his own brother making eyes he’d seen in other people’s faces when they wanted Mycroft.

He sighs heavily and changes into his singlet and boxers before climbing into bed. He’d come out here to spend some time with his family and now he was hiding in his room from a pushy fifteen-year-old. He took his book from the bedside table and curled against the headboard to lose himself in something safe and predictable.

 

After about half an hour he hears a soft tap.

“Miiikeyyy. Let me in.”

“Absolutely not.”

“We both know you want to.”

“Go to bed, Sherlock.”

There’s a huff and then footsteps as he continues down the hall. Mycroft tries to get back to his page but he’s rattled again. Even though it’s early, he turns out the light and lays back. He can hear his brother moving around next door, thumping books, kicking the mess out of his way. He imagines the boy’s also undressing, peeling the stiff-collared shirt down ivory arms, unbuttoning his jeans...

Mycroft turns over, burying his face in the pillow. Why does he feel this way? He has never, never seen Sherlock as anything more than his little brother – a son in some ways, a companion, someone to teach and watch over and encourage into another upstanding pillar of the Holmes family. Perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps he’s been ambushed by the growing up Sherlock’s done while he was at Oxford. The teenager doesn’t need Mycroft in the same way anymore. He still needs a paternal, watchful figure, but the friendship of their early years is gone. Is this what Sherlock thinks they should replace it with, or is it all one big drawn-out attempt to make Mycroft uncomfortable and lord it over him later?

He admires the boy, yes. Sherlock is beautiful. He’s astoundingly clever, impudent in a way Mycroft secretly admires. He is the sort of boy who Mycroft might go for if he was a bit older – _and not his baby brother_. But the physical outweighs the mental it seems, even to Mycroft’s own revulsion. He can’t stop himself from remembering the pert look over dinner and groaning. He burrows further into the pillow, half-hoping he’ll smother himself in the night and not have to face Sherlock in the morning.

He sleeps deeply, exhausted by the constant efforts to avoid being caught alone. In his dreams Sherlock is still there: teasing, touching, whispering and giggling in Mycroft’s ear. The hands stray down to his groin and Mycroft moans.

“Sherlock...”

“Shh, Mikey. I’ve got you.”

His eyes snap open. Sherlock’s under his covers, one hand on his shoulder as the other cups the _extremely_ hard mound in his shorts. Mycroft backpedals frantically. Sherlock’s no match for his strength and bulk, hands withdrawing readily as he turns on the light and gets up, staring at the half-naked boy in his bed.

“How the hell did you get in?”

“The window.” Sherlock jerks his head.

Mycroft stares at the thin ledge leading between their rooms and shakes his head.

“This has to stop, Sherlock. You have no idea the consequences of your actions-”

“I’ve got a fair idea.” Sherlock smirks at his erection.

Mycroft scowls and covers his crotch with a hand. “This behaviour is unacceptable. If you don’t give up I’ll have you shipped to Aunt Flora’s for the rest of the summer.”

“You’ll try.” Sherlock swings his legs over the mattress, the long pale limbs dangerously close to Mycroft.

Not even safe in his own bed! Both his dreams and his reality had been invaded by this slip of a boy, looking so smug as he leaned back on his hands. Mycroft’s anger returns and he grabs Sherlock’s arm, dragging him towards the door.

“This is inevitable, Mycroft. Putting it off only makes it more enticing.”

“You are a fool, brother. This is by far the stupidest, most reckless idea you have ever had.”

He shoves Sherlock into the hallway and locks the door. Mycroft hurries to the window and locks that too, but he knows neither will keep his brother out if he really tries. He taught the boy to pick locks himself.

 

He casts a guilty glance at his bed, but admonishes himself for being ridiculous. He still has to sleep. Mycroft makes sure the curtains are shut tight and climbs back in. He can’t sleep though – not with the raging hard-on poking into the sheets almost painfully. Mycroft looks at it with thick despair. He’ll have to...

Mycroft closes his hand around his shaft gently, stifling a hiss as his eyes fall shut. He thinks of that ravishing blonde in his Political Science class, the one with the breasts like melons and legs both slender and creamy. They’ve never actually slept together but he’s imagined it more than once, and they’ve had enough casual conversation he can tell she’d accept the invitation if he offered. He thinks of her and strokes.

He imagines them in the empty classroom. Everyone else has already left for Christmas break. He lifts her onto the professor’s desk, legs wrapping around his waist as he slides inside her like butter. Mycroft groans under his breath and strokes faster, willing himself to finish quickly.

“I’d love to do that for you.” a voice says through the wall.

Mycroft pauses, breath hitching in his throat.

“Can you picture that, Mikey? I’m sure you can, you always had a good imagination for your silly novels. My fingers wrapping around you, cool against your hot prick.”

And suddenly it’s Sherlock’s long, creamy legs; Sherlock’s chest, flat and pressed tight against his as he forces the boy flat against the desk. Mycroft rebels for a moment, pushing the image away, but he’s close and his hand moves automatically.

The silken tones come again. “Would you like me to use my mouth, Mycroft? I’ve been told I have a talented tongue. Pink, wet, _warm_.”

Mycroft speeds up, thrusting into his hand at the image of Sherlock’s head slamming back into the wood with each pump of his hips, hair dishevelled and stuck to his face with sweat as his fingers rake down Mycroft’s back. In his fantasy his brother’s as clingy as ever, skin stuck to his, arms curled around him like an octopus.

“I imagine you’d be so hard I’d choke. Would you like to see that? I bet you would, sadistic fuck.”

Mycroft’s climax hits him with a moan, release spurting over his hand. He’s overwhelmed for a moment, blinking against the dim light as his chest heaves. As it calms the silence becomes a weight on his shoulders. He glances at the wall and knows he’s given Sherlock a huge taste of victory. The teenager doesn’t make another sound and he can imagine the cocky grin on his brother’s face. Feeling filthy and ashamed and more than a bit scared, he wipes himself clean and lays back. Maybe this will be enough, maybe Sherlock will lose interest now.

But he doesn’t really believe it.

 

He’s reluctant to go down to breakfast but Mummy will notice if he’s missing and he’s certain Sherlock would have no problem explaining (in detail) why Mycroft was hiding. He holds himself as stiffly as possible, not looking at the youth as he sits.

“Morning Mikey.” Mummy holds out the toast.

“Thank you.” He takes a few slices. Reaching for the jam he chances a peek at Sherlock, but the boy’s not even looking at him. He’s got his head buried in some kind of technical manual. Mycroft feels a surge of hope.

He expects something after they’ve eaten but Sherlock disappears off into the woods. With the prospect of a day free from worry and guilt Mycroft’s mood lifts. He spends some time with Mummy, he talks to the old servants, and he takes some time in his father’s library to write to a few of his school friends. Sherlock’s not at lunch but he makes a brief appearance at dinner without a single off comment or lustful look. Mycroft congratulates himself on getting past the awkwardness and thinks now they can both forget it and carry on.

He blames this same stupid optimism for the lapse in forgetting to lock his bedroom door before he steps into the ensuite. Mycroft strips quickly and steps under the warm spray, rubbing his face under the water as he gets his hair wet. He washes slowly, enjoying the way it soothes the tension from his muscles. Things will be better now.

There’s a sharp click and his head snaps up. A second later the curtain’s ripped back and Mycroft jumps, scrambling to cover himself.

“Sherlock! Get out!”

“Relax, Mikey, I’m not going to touch you. I’m not even going to talk – I know how it gives you ideas.” He winks.

“I thought we were done with this.”

“We haven’t even dipped our toe in, Mikey.”

He backs up, lowering the toilet lid so he can sit. Mycroft frowns, uncertain where this is going. He reaches for the shower curtain but Sherlock tuts.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen you naked before.”

“I should throw you out again.”

“But you won’t. You’re afraid to get close to me like this, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. It’s better than admitting Sherlock’s right – but only marginally.

Sherlock unbuttons his pants and Mycroft stiffens. One long-fingered hand reaches in and pulls out his shaft, already half-hard.

“What are you doing?”

“Try not to be so stupid, Mycroft.” Sherlock drawls.

His eyes roam over Mycroft frozen in place. The teenager flicks his wrist, hissing at the friction. He’s never imagined Sherlock doing this. It’s too physical, too mundane, but then he is a teenage boy with the same hormones as everyone else. From the careful strokes it looks like he’s had ample practice.

True to his word, Sherlock doesn’t talk. He moans though, low in his throat, eyes hungry as he looks at his brother. Mycroft almost wishes he would keep speaking. Listening to Sherlock mouth off has to be better than _this_. His hand moves quickly, eyes focusing on Mycroft’s crotch for longer than they should and then Sherlock leans back and comes with a muffled shout.

“Mycroft!”

The moment stuns them both, the two Holmeses staring at each other as Sherlock catches his breath. He sits up, wiping his hand carelessly on Mycroft’s towel before he tucks himself away.

“Good thing the water’s gone cold.” Sherlock eyes his erection.

He sweeps out, leaving Mycroft spluttering in the icy shower, a sinking feeling in his chest.

*****

He decides he has three options: leave early, send Sherlock to Aunt Flora’s as threatened or find him a better distraction. The first two will raise too many questions he can’t answer so he settles for the third. After dinner the next night he lays down his cutlery and smiles at Sherlock.

“Mummy, would you mind if I took Sherly out tonight?”

“Certainly not, if he wants to go.”

Sherlock gives him a puzzled glance but smiles. “I’d love to spend some time with Mikey.”

“Good. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready then.”

“Will you be back late?”

“Most probably. Don’t wait up for us.”

He goes to fetch the driver and turns to find Sherlock waiting eagerly behind him. The breathless excitement in his smile makes Mycroft’s cock stir, but he suppresses it.

“Where are we going?”

“Figure it out yourself.”

That only makes Sherlock more intrigued, and he’s quiet as he slips into the back seat next to Mycroft.

With the driver up front there’s no way Sherlock can harass him and Mycroft relaxes a little, resting back in his seat as they ride the short distance into town (or what passes for it out here at least). The driver stops outside the pub and Mycroft taps his shoulder.

“Thank you. I’ll call if you’re needed.”

They climb out and Sherlock frowns. “Why here?”

“You’ll see.”

He knows the teasing hints are working when Sherlock follows without another objection. They walk in and find an assortment of the locals, older men drinking together and a small crowd of youngsters making full use of the landlord’s leniency towards age restrictions. There are a few attractive people in that group and Mycroft leads him over to stand right next to them as he orders a brandy for himself and a shandy for Sherlock. His brother takes the alcohol without really looking at it, still scanning the room.

“Is this your idea of a date?” he keeps his voice low, “Because I don’t need to be wined and dined, Mikey. Especially here.”

“This is an opportunity.”

“I fail to see how.”

“There are plenty of handsome men and women around, pliant and willing from their drinks.”

Sherlock’s whole face sours. “You think so.”

“Oh yes. What about her?” he nods at a stunning redhead. She’s got freckles and a very sweet smile, but Sherlock ignores her.

“This is a waste of time.” He drains the shandy, storming back towards the door.

Mycroft frowns. Never one to waste good brandy, he swills it down before chasing after him. His brother’s already stalking down the road towards their house, seemingly oblivious to the slight chill. Mycroft catches up easily though, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulder. The teenager shakes him off angrily.

“Is that what you think this is? Misplaced adolescent sexual curiosity?”

“I had hoped so.”

“This isn’t about sex, Mycroft!”

“Your little displays would very much beg to differ.” He says coldly.

Sherlock’s hands hit him in the chest and somehow he’s stumbling back, forced against the fence beside the path. Sherlock’s eyes blaze under his shaggy curls and then he’s kissing Mycroft, lips unrelenting and cool with the night air. Mycroft tries to wriggle away but he’s trapped, completely at Sherlock’s mercy as his hand cups the elder man’s face.

Sherlock draws back, breathing heavily. His arms practically shake with emotion.

“That’s what it’s about, Mycroft. Us.”

Mycroft pushes aside the sensation of smooth lips and soft hands so he can focus. “I understand if you have feelings that compel you to deepen our relationship. But it’s wrong, Sherlock – illegal for several different reasons and incredibly shameful.”

“You want it though, Mikey. Make all the excuses you please, hold up morality and legality in front of you like shields, but I still see through them. I _always_ see through you.”

He walks away before Mycroft can respond. The walk back to the house from here is decent but Mycroft doesn’t call the driver. He needs the space, letting Sherlock pull ahead of him until his brother’s just a black figure moving across the lawn.

 

He’s failing. It’s his job to protect Sherlock, to guide him, to help him and he’s failing. Falling prey to temptation, to his own weakness. He’s a bad person, a lecherous old vulture lusting after his own sibling. Nothing Sherlock does to encourage him can excuse that. But the kiss still plays against his lips, so firm, Sherlock pressed against him solidly.

Mycroft doesn’t see anyone when he reaches the house, heading straight up to his room. He closes the door with a sigh, not bothering to lock it. He’ll leave in the morning. Mummy can think what she likes; he won’t stay here and lead Sherlock one single step further astray.

He’s about to take off his clothes when he stops. This won’t end. Sherlock might grow out of it, yes, but Mycroft will never be able to forget it. No amount of selective memory loss can erase the sight of his brother’s white hand curled around his own shaft, the rugged low suggestions of Sherlock on his knees. And then he hears a soft sob.

Mycroft’s not sure for a second. It’s been so long since he’s heard Sherlock cry, but as he listens the familiar cadence bleeds through the wall. He leans back against his bedpost, miserable. Sherlock cries quietly, obviously trying not to be heard, but it’s impossible to stifle all the noise. This is the boy he’s fought bullies for, the only one who can possibly match him in deductions – a student already overtaking his teacher. He loves Sherlock more than anyone, even more than Mummy. He can’t bear this.

Mycroft straightens, putting his coat back on. He walks into the hall and knocks.

“Sherly?”

“Piss off!” it sounds ragged and wet and squeezes his heart.

“If you still mean to do...what you mean to do...meet me in the groundskeeper’s cottage.”

There’s a loud breath on the other side of the door but Mycroft doesn’t stay to overthink it. He heads downstairs as silent as a ghost, letting himself out through the back door. The deserted groundskeeper’s house is little more than two rooms and a thatched roof and hasn’t been inhabited for twenty years, but it’s still furnished and it’s far enough from the house, shrouded by the dark. The lock is easy enough for him to pick, not yet stiff and rusted shut. It’s musty inside but he ignores the main room and focuses on the bed. He can’t take Sherlock in a room like this, so neglected and dirty. He hurriedly opens the windows to air it out, shaking the covers free of dust. Mycroft figures he’s got a short grace period while Sherlock tries to hide the evidence of his crying before he comes down and he uses it to tidy up, laying his coat over the bedside table. When it’s as nice as he can make it Mycroft sits on the edge of the bed and waits.

 

There are quiet footsteps and then the front door opens and Sherlock sticks his head in.

“Mikey?”

“Here.”

He shuffles in, looking a bit uncertain as he observes Mycroft’s preparations. He looks at the weary expression on his brother’s face and sniffs again.

“Are you sure?”

“No, but I don’t seem to have a choice.”

Sherlock’s face brightens for a moment. “Guess not.”

He kisses Mycroft again and it’s the cue for all his reservations to disappear. If he’s going to fuck to Sherlock, he’s going to do it properly. The teenager seems surprised by the sudden passion as Mycroft sweeps him into his arms, letting out a muffled squeal as their lips move against each other. His hands run down Sherlock’s sides and crush their hips together, betraying the signs of his arousal. Sherlock gasps and Mycroft studies his face closely.

“Are _you_ sure?”

Sherlock juts out his chin like it’s a challenge. “Shut up and kiss me, Mikey.”

He does, tugging Sherlock onto the bed. He trails a hand over Sherlock’s neck and the boy shivers.

“You’re not a virgin.”

“No. I’ve dallied.” He says.

Mycroft clamps down on the hot jealousy that rises in his throat at that. It’s a good thing. It will make this easier. He clutches at a handful of Sherlock’s hair and even though he doesn’t want to hear the answer, he asks anyway.

“Were they worthy of you?”

“Of course not. You’re the only person who fits that description.”

The sheer glee in his brother’s eyes spurs Mycroft onwards. He reaches a hand between them, unbuttoning Sherlock’s coat as he reclaims his lips. When his hand brushes against cool, soft skin he stops, frowning. Sherlock’s smile is even bigger.

Mycroft peels open the coat and hisses at his state of complete and utter undress. “Jesus, Sherly, you’ll catch your death walking around like that.”

“It’s summer.” He sits up, sliding it down his shoulders.

Sherlock stays there for a moment letting Mycroft admire him. It’s exactly what he pictured, waifish limbs and skin never touched by sunlight. He’s like a Greek god, but not a warlike one. Thanatos, maybe. Apollo, boyish and cruel. Sherlock uses his distraction to unbutton Mycroft’s shirt, tugging it down his arms. He traces a hand over the sparse chest hair, the muscles present but not impressive. Mycroft feels a sudden stab of insecurity next to this moonlit perfection, but as usual Sherlock seems to know what he’s thinking. He leans forward, mouth against his ear.

“Not bad for someone who loves cake so much.”

It’s designed to make him laugh and it does, quietly, nervously.

“At least I eat something.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow wickedly and he bites his lip. “I eat – when it suits me.”

He pushes Mycroft aside and falls gracefully to his knees before the older man. His fingers fiddle with the complicated fastening of Mycroft’s pants and finally get them open. The angular face tilts up and Mycroft can’t breathe; his hands clench frozen at his sides. It’s the shower all over again and he’s powerless to do anything.

“Do you remember what I said Mikey, or were you too...distracted?”

“I remember.”

Sherlock reaches in and pulls out his member, hand idling along it as he takes a closer look. He moves it gently, examining the head, ignoring Mycroft’s quiet grunts of pleasure at the touch. He fastens his gaze on his brother’s, never breaking eye contact as he bends and takes Mycroft’s length in his mouth.

His head tips back with a moan as Sherlock pulls away again, hands twisting in the spit coating his skin. He’s clearly done this before, probably tried it on an equally curious classmate before discarding it as unnecessary data. His tongue swirls over the tip and dips into his already weeping slit and Mycroft’s brows raise. Maybe he didn’t delete all of it.

Sherlock attacks it the way he does everything he wants to do well, with enthusiasm and focus. He licks stripes up and down Mycroft, sucking on just the head while his hands do the work. He looks up often, eyes caressing his brother’s chest and face. Mycroft’s quickly losing control of himself; just the sight of Sherlock on his knees looking so obedient and awed pushes him close to the edge. His nails bite into his palms as he avoids doing what his brain screams at him to do.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock whispers, “Go on. This is for you.”

He hesitates for a second more, still too used to protecting Sherlock to want to hurt him (accidentally or otherwise), but then the teenager slides all the way down to the hilt and his hips buck involuntarily. Mycroft’s hands sink into Sherlock’s hair, holding on desperately as he fucks his mouth. He can tell despite the offer Sherlock’s not really prepared for its effect, since there’s a bit of teeth and choking, but he eases up as much as he can and the boy settles into the rhythm. There’s saliva running down his chin and his hands squeeze Mycroft everywhere they can reach, fingers dipping into his trousers to fondle his sac.

Mycroft almost bites his own tongue when on the next thrust Sherlock starts humming. The low vibration resonates up through him and he speeds up, throwing aside his earlier caution as he pumps into Sherlock relentlessly. He hums as best he can, hands never still, and with a sudden last shocking suck Mycroft’s coming apart.

“Sherly?”

“Keep going.”

He holds Sherlock in place as he empties himself between the boy’s lips, fingers clutching a little too hard. Mycroft falls back, untangling himself from the curls and stroking Sherlock’s face as he swallows.

“You are truly beautiful.”

 

He blushes – Sherlock Holmes, his brother, _blushes_. Mycroft hasn’t seen anything like that in years and it makes him laugh.

“Come here.”

The youth clambers into his lap, letting Mycroft hold him close for a moment before he squirms, arousal prodding against the older man.

“This is a terribly unbalanced situation. You’re still wearing pants.”

“I’ll remedy it then.”

Mycroft shifts him onto the bed and stands, dropping his trousers. He kicks them aside, not caring for once about creases (or perhaps caring more about Sherlock laughing at him if he stops to fold them). The teenager sprawls over the bed expectantly, eyes dark and older than they should be. Mycroft climbs over him, pressing his lips in a trail of kisses up his chest. It’s only when he kisses Sherlock’s forehead he realises he’s forgotten to bring anything.

“Pocket of my coat.”

Mycroft gives him a piercing look. “I hate when you do that.”

“No you don’t. You taught it to me.”

He growls with a smile, fishing Sherlock’s coat off the floor. They’ll need to take some pains to clean the place up before they leave, but he already has a feeling they’ll be here again several times over the next few weeks. It gives him a pang both joyful and sad.

As if reading his thoughts again Sherlock grins. “Hiding this from Mummy is going to be so much fun.”

“Don’t be an arse about it.”

“Why would I do that? I don’t want to scare you off now I’ve finally caught you.”

In any other context Mycroft would object to being called caught but it’s pretty much the truth. He finds the small bottle of lube and sets it on the empty pillow. The younger Holmes grabs his face in thin hands and kisses him again, legs already wrapping around Mycroft’s waist in a search for some friction. He regards the hard shaft rubbing against his stomach and looks up.

“How’s your recovery time?”

“As good as a normal juvenile.”

“Christ Sherlock, do you say that sort of thing just to make me feel even creepier?”

Sherlock squeezes a hand on his jaw, forcing Mycroft to look up.

“You will _not_ feel bad about this. I am an educated, intelligent person fully aware of my actions. I think if anyone here is acting without his full consent Mycroft, it’s you.”

“You _have_ been taking advantage all summer.” He tries to joke.

“Exactly. So stop thinking for two seconds about the great Holmes name and do what we both want. Equally.”

It steels Mycroft a little more, enough that he closes his hand over Sherlock’s cock and strokes. The boy reacts like a wildcat, thrashing about and pulling at Mycroft with nails and teeth. His keens are so breathless as to be almost inaudible, his body bowing up into the touch. Mycroft massages the shaft with his big hand and uses the other to flip the lid off the bottle. He spills the slippery liquid over his fingers and snakes his hand between them. The tip circles Sherlock’s hole and he shudders, eyes turning feral in the dark.

Mycroft makes sure the entrance is well slicked with tentative swirls before he starts to inch one digit in, going slower than he would with any of his lovers. Sherlock doesn’t resist as much as he expects, his muscles relaxing to let Mycroft in. He wriggles his hips encouragingly and Mycroft smiles.

“Looks like I’ve finally got the upper hand.”

Sherlock barks a laugh. “If you think that then you’re a moron.”

Mycroft has to admit that’s probably true, but he doesn’t mind with the tight fit of Sherlock around his finger as he explores and stretches. He crooks it upwards and presses firmly against Sherlock’s gland and the boy howls. He kicks at the sheets as Mycroft doesn’t move, his other hand still shuffling around Sherlock’s prick as the pressure builds. With another roar wrenched from his throat Sherlock comes, seed shooting over Mycroft’s fist and dripping onto the bed.

 

He gives him a second for his nerves to calm before Mycroft slips in another finger. It’s too soon and Sherlock gasps, limbs still loose from his climax. Mycroft’s patient and careful though, and after a few minutes when he adds a third Sherlock’s flagging arousal starts to swell again.

Mycroft’s got the image of Sherlock’s face crying out in pleasure in the front of his mind, the pretty hollowed out cheeks and wide open mouth pushing everything else aside until there is nothing, nothing Mycroft cares about but making him do it again. An atomic bomb could drop on their heads and his only regret would be seeing it just the once, followed closely perhaps by the thought he should have given in that first day he came home instead of wasting a whole month.

His own hard-on has become so rigid it flops comically as he pumps his fingers in and out of Sherlock. He’s not going to be able to wait much longer, and he forces his eyes open to scan the boy’s face.

“Do it,” he rasps out, “Mycroft, do it now.”

He gives a guttural whine and opens the bottle one-handed, tipping half the contents over the covers in his haste. Mycroft slicks himself, the cool of the gel soothing him as it makes the need worse. He draws his fingers out and braces his head against Sherlock’s entrance, giving one last look to check he’s okay even though Mycroft’s beyond stopping now. Sherlock’s arms circle his waist and his fists press into Mycroft’s back. He plunges forward, quickly sheathed to the hilt.

Mycroft stops, head hanging as he holds himself up on his arms and just _feels_. Sherlock is incredibly tight, the warmth of his body like a vice around Mycroft. His head is pressed back into the pillow, eyes huge as he stares at the ceiling in something like shock.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that so fast.” Mycroft manages to get out.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock says.

They wait another moment for them both to adjust. Mycroft looks down at his brother as Sherlock clamps his limbs around him and it’s so much like the fantasy and yet nothing like it at all. In his imaginings it had felt like he was using Sherlock, whereas one look at the boy’s face tells him how much the opposite was true. He is the helpless one here. He scatters kisses over Sherlock’s collar and neck, hands cinching over his bony waist and hips, kneading the skin there. Sherlock strokes a hand down Mycroft’s back, their urgency forgotten for the time being.

“Do you see now?”

Mycroft nods slowly.

“This is all I wanted.”

He takes that as a signal to start moving, thrusts slow but deep. Sherlock’s head tips back, exposing his neck to more of Mycroft’s attentions. He sucks gently, nips lightly, nothing that might leave a mark. Sherlock is less considerate, tearing his nails into Mycroft’s back as his heels hit the older Holmes’ thighs.

“More.”

“If I do that, this won’t last very long.” He’s already struggling with the pressure gripping him tight and the aching kind of wonder in his chest.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, just – more.”

He obliges, shifting to his knees and raising Sherlock so the teenager’s in his lap. In this position Sherlock has all the control and he sets a more frenzied pace. His fingers curl in Mycroft’s hair as he slams his hips down, breath coming in hot gasps across his brother’s face and neck. Mycroft keeps hold of his hips at first, but it doesn’t help as much as he wants so he shifts them to wrap around Sherlock’s back, one hand cupping the back of his head. Their lips meet again and then Mycroft’s face is buried in his shoulder, muttering all the ways Sherlock’s brilliant and unique and gorgeous. They don’t come out very clearly but he gets the point.

 

Sherlock batters himself against Mycroft, panting as if each thrust forces the air up out of his lungs. His fingers twitch at Mycroft’s scalp, pinching and grabbing. He presses his forehead against his brother’s chest, slowing just enough to speak.

“Touch me.”

He doesn’t need the encouragement. Mycroft’s hand closes over Sherlock’s cock and holds still, letting the boy thrust into it as he moves up and down. His head flies back at a stark, unnatural angle for a moment and then he’s bellowing again, the sound fortunately lost in Mycroft’s neck.

It’s too much for him, the added quiver of Sherlock’s passage. Mycroft tips him back flat on the mattress and flicks his hips, only managing two hard thrusts before he’s coming too. He stays like that, joints locked into place as the waves ripple through him and then he’s boneless. Mycroft is young but not as young as Sherlock, and he flops onto his side with a tired huff.

Sherlock turns and nestles into his hold, curls tickling Mycroft’s nose. Even though there are a million things he could say, from endearments and promises to simple deductions about the amount of dust mites they must have inhaled, he says nothing and the house is silent apart from their slowing breaths.

Eventually Mycroft pats his shoulder. “You should go back inside.”

Sherlock lifts himself onto his elbow and glares down at his brother. “Why would I do that?”

“They’ll miss you.” And now that the initial bliss is fading Mycroft wants to stay in the cottage and have a good cry over how stupid and worthless he is.

“I don’t think so. The servants are notoriously deep sleepers and Mummy doesn’t stir at all once she’s taken her pills. I think you just want me gone so you can get all mopey again.”

“I will not get _mopey_.”

“Yes you will. You were always afraid to do anything Mummy and Daddy disapproved of – _unless I was there to push you_. The second I’m out of your sight you’ll convince yourself this was a terrible, tragic mistake.”

Mycroft can’t help a snort. “Wasn’t it?”

Sherlock strokes his face softly. “Normal rules don’t apply here, Mycroft. There’s no one else like us.”

Mycroft grumbles but he’s touched. They get dressed and try to hide all evidence of their coupling. It’s unlikely anyone will come in here but it’s better to be safe. Afterwards Sherlock slings his arm around Mycroft’s waist and they walk back together, only separating at Mycroft’s door.

Sherlock chances a kiss, beaming devilishly as Mycroft gives him a reproachful look. He ducks into his own room before he can object though. Mycroft smiles, less uneasy now, and heads straight for the shower. As much as he’d love to sleep with the scent of his brother on him it would make his sheets abominably sticky. He washes unhurriedly, relishing in his remembrances and the strained muscles left behind.

When he walks out in nothing but his towel Sherlock’s sitting in the bed.

“Are you insane? Not in the house.”

“I came through the window. My door’s locked, your door’s locked...no one can bother us.”

Mycroft’s too tired to fight about it, especially when his point is logical and he’s got that terrifying smirk again. He climbs into bed and Sherlock quickly tangles them together.

“You have to get back into your room unseen before breakfast.” He insists, burrowing his nose in Sherlock’s hair.

“Done.”

*****

Those two months of summer are some of the best and worst of Mycroft’s life. The sneaking around is stressful, particularly because Sherlock views it all as a game and likes to take bigger and bigger risks. They sleep in Mycroft’s bed most nights without trouble but they can’t do much else in the house apart from the odd shared shower or cautious kiss in a corner. His brother’s favourite delight seemed to be footsies under the breakfast table two feet from Mummy, which drives Mycroft wild.

They sneak away to the groundskeeper’s at night, and once or twice in the day before Mycroft puts a stop to that. When Sherlock complains he just shrugs.

“I don’t perform well with an audience.”

Some nights they go out, but most of the time they sit on the couch in the library supposedly reading until everyone else falls sleep. Then Mycroft would get to taste those lips again and feel the sweet firm flesh of Sherlock’s thighs parting for him.

 

The closer it got to September the quieter Sherlock became during the days. By contrast their nights became wilder, the teenager begging Mycroft to take him over and over long past the time they physically couldn’t keep going.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mycroft says quietly one night as they’re lying together in the cottage, tugging gently at Sherlock’s curls.

“You’ll go to uni and forget me.”

“I can’t forget you, you’re my brother.”

He shakes his head. “No, you will. You’ll have to. Next summer you’ll be in London and I can’t very well live with you there.”

It hurts Mycroft that his _fifteen-year-old_ brother is the one being so mature and rational about this, mainly because he tends to be the less sensible of the two. He sighs.

“I suppose you’re right. It’s probably for the best.”

“We’ll have Christmas break and that will be the end of it.” Sherlock agrees.

Mycroft nods sadly and holds him closer, afraid it won’t be that easy.

 

It’s not. He goes back to school, giving Sherlock and Mummy a mildly tearful goodbye on the day and his brother an incredibly athletic one the night before. Uni looks the same as always, his friends just as he left them, but it’s different. Mycroft’s changed, opened up in some ways and closed down in others. He counts the days until Christmas break, something he never used to do, and when he sees Sherlock it’s like breathing again after being held underwater. They make love at least twice a day, and every time it’s more desperate because it’s closer to the last. His brother waves him off with a peck and a sad smile, and Mycroft’s mood drops the further the car gets from the house. By the time he’s at Oxford he’s back to old serious Mycroft, if a tad more temperamental than before.

They still talk but never about the things Mycroft’s really thinking, and eventually Sherlock gets distracted by other things and they talk even less. He tries to take other lovers, women, lower classman but Mycroft just finds himself comparing them to Sherlock. He eventually stops bothering and focuses on his work instead. He’s good at that.

Mycroft moves to London and starts climbing his way through the ranks, and eventually Sherlock follows. It’s here his brother falls into some alarming addictions, here Mycroft starts to feel a gut-churning guilt. Did he do this to Sherlock? He wonders it every time he goes to his brother’s flat only to find him passed out on the couch in nothing but trousers. Sometimes when he’s that high Sherlock begs for a kiss, a touch, a quick fuck. Sometimes when he’s at his absolute wit’s end Mycroft gives in. He hates that though – it feels more like taking advantage than it ever did when he was underage, even when Sherlock’s pleading for it.

He gets his brother cleaned up but things are never quite the same after Sherlock’s rehab. He’s more guarded, more arrogant in a way. He doesn’t want Mycroft to think that he still needs him. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he did grow out of it after all.

*****

They’re having tea and scones at the palace when Mycroft gets an opportunity to pay his brother back for all the sly comments. He watches Sherlock’s face as he peruses the photos of Miss Adler, and it is definitely _not_ jealousy that makes him lash out.

“Don’t be alarmed. It’s to do with sex.”

His eyes flash knowingly. “Sex doesn’t alarm me.”

“How would you know?”

It’s a step too far even as he says it but Mycroft keeps his face smooth. They’ve been airing their dirty laundry in front of Dr Watson and Harry for the past fifteen minutes, why should this be any different? But it is. Sherlock can’t take his eyes off Mycroft, barely listening as his jaw tightens. He takes the case and Mycroft isn’t sure if it’s to piss him off or placate him, and he goes home feeling worse than ever.

 

He’s soothing his troubles with a scotch when there’s a knock. Mycroft sighs. It must be Anthea since no one else knows where he lives, and it must be important since she’s here at ten on a Wednesday. He walks to the door in his waistcoat and checks the security screen, raising his brows. He opens the door warily.

“Expecting someone else?” Sherlock rumbles.

“Should I even bother to ask how you found this place?”

“There was no _finding_. I make it my business to always know where you are so I can live as far away as possible.”

There’s a flicker of hurt Mycroft can’t contain and Sherlock actually notices, his expression softening.

“Can I come in?”

Mycroft waves his glass apathetically. “I suppose, if you’re going to be civil. Would you like a drink?”

“Thank you.”

Mycroft goes to the sideboard to pour another and carries it over, the two of them settling at opposite ends of his lounge room in their respective armchairs. The younger Holmes fidgets awkwardly, tapping his fingers against the leather.

“I’m sorry.”

Mycroft almost chokes on his scotch, coughing enough to make Sherlock’s brows dip with worry.

“You’re what?”

“Sorry.”

Mycroft looks at him suspiciously. “About?”

“Everything. Teasing you, being so cavalier about it. Acting like I’d forgotten how it was...before.”

Mycroft’s very quiet as he takes a sip. “We both agreed it had to end, didn’t we?”

“But I made you want something and then took it away.”

“We didn’t have the option to keep going, Sherlock.”

“I was so caught up in a lot of things: school, drugs, my work. I know you assumed I’d moved on but there hasn’t been anybody else for me since, and I know it’s the same for you Mycroft.”

“I fail to see how this confession makes things easier.”

“We don’t have to be cruel to each other to keep our feelings in check. You’re still my big brother, Mikey. I don’t want you to be unhappy. I don’t want to fight because we’d rather be shagging.”

“Sherlock, stop,” Mycroft holds up a hand, “That won’t be happening again. There’s too much at stake now.”

“I know. We’re both watched, tracked, scrutinised. We have clever enemies who could do a lot with this information.” He takes a deep sip, wincing at the burn.

“Then what are you suggesting?”

Sherlock gets up, placing his glass on the coffee table and moves to Mycroft’s seat. He drops to his knees at the other man’s feet.

“I’m saying instead of nitpicking and bickering, instead of pretending to hate each other, I want you to let me love you as I always have.”

 

Mycroft laughs hollowly. “Isn’t that something we both just agreed was too dangerous?”

“ _You_ agreed. _I_ say we’re clever enough together to outsmart anyone, no matter how many of them come at us.”

“I cannot buy off or kill everyone who notices our sudden chumminess.”

“We’ll be discreet. We’re both too busy for regular visits anyway. Surely brothers can have dinner together perhaps twice a week? We’ll say it’s for Mummy.”

“Sherlock...”

“Isn’t this the only way for us?”

Mycroft is silent for a long time, looking at his glass more than at Sherlock. “It has been very...hard for me. To be to you what I once was without wanting to resume our activities. Especially now that you’ve grown up so charmingly.”

Sherlock flutters his lashes and there it is again, that look that made Mycroft fall down this rabbit hole in the first place.

“But you can do better than me. I will not pretend I am as appealing now as I may have been at twenty two.”

“Twenty two or sixty two you will still be Mycroft.”

He sticks out his bottom lip. “What about John?”

“What about him? There’s nothing between us.”

“You live together. He will notice, and I do not see the good doctor approving of this situation.”

“John will never believe either of us would do this. If I told him about that summer I think he’d laugh me out of the room.”

Mycroft wants it – badly. He’s wanted it for almost twenty years. But there were reasons they’d left it as they did, important reasons.

“This could end horribly.”

“Who is there to disappoint? Mummy’s gone. If we’re caught we’re caught but I won’t waste my life not having you, Mikey. I’ve done that long enough.”

He kneels forward and wraps his hand around Mycroft’s, kissing him. He wants to resists and he wants to pull him closer; he knows what he should do and what everything is telling him to do instead. So like he has since they were small, Mycroft dances to Sherlock’s tune and kisses him back.

“You ruined me, just like I said you would.” He mutters against Sherlock’s cheek.

“I’m sorry.”

“If you keep saying that I’m going to think you’re an imposter.”

Sherlock stands with a smirk, still holding Mycroft’s hands. “Come to the other room and you can check properly.”

Mycroft sets down his glass, eyes twinkling as he follows his brother once again.


End file.
